


refract, reform

by puppyblue



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Aaron Davis Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Maybe - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Peter Parker Lives, SO, Still no plot, aaron has priorities, because i'm still mad, but i can't say Everyone Lives, entirely self-indulgence, nope - Freeform, plot to arrive in later stories, those being one (1) very stress-inducing nephew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppyblue/pseuds/puppyblue
Summary: I should go up there and help him,Miles thinks, and stands up straight to stare at where Green Goblin and the Prowler have Spiderman pinned down.And in the five seconds between the thought and the realization thathey, maybe not,all Miles can think is,but I have no way to get up there.So he throws his phone instead.
Relationships: Aaron Davis & Miles Morales
Comments: 75
Kudos: 783
Collections: Canon Divergent AUs





	refract, reform

_I should go up there and help him,_ Miles thinks, and stands up straight to stare at where Green Goblin and the Prowler have Spiderman pinned down. 

And in the five seconds between the thought and the realization that _hey, maybe not,_ all Miles can think is, _but I have no way to get up there._

So he throws his phone instead. 

It’s a good throw; maybe _too_ good, because even as he lets it go he realizes just how far the distance is. But he’d put his body behind it and the phone flies, tiny and light, end over end. Miles has about two seconds to be proud of that before common sense kicks in and oh wait, _no—_

And his phone bounces right off of Green Goblin’s face. 

It doesn’t do anything—of _course_ it doesn’t do anything, why did he _do that_ —just bonks the weird behemoth gargoyle that is the Goblin in the forehead before dropping with a clatter to the metal below. The Goblin’s gigantic head twists down to stare at it, as though confused by its very existence, which Miles understands, because _why did he—?_

And then Green Goblin _and_ the Prowler both whip around to stare right at _him._

Miles freezes, horror washing down his spine to congeal in his stomach. In that moment of unbroken staring, he distantly hears Spiderman, so quiet he maybe shouldn’t have been able to, groan, “Oh _no.”_

This sort of thing had always seemed like a simple choice in the comics: help the hero, defeat the bad guys. And Miles knows better than that, knows even Spiderman’s comics aren’t truths, but it turns out they don’t even touch the reality of it. 

Miles doesn’t feel brave at all; his heart is pounding, his stomach in knots. He’d started so fiercely because he’d wanted to help _,_ but none of that fire survives when Spiderman barks, “Prowler, _don’t_ —”

It’s more a warning for Miles than anything—because it certainly doesn’t stop him—as Prowler launches off the machine, coming _right at Miles_.

“Kid, _run!”_

Miles hears the shout only faintly; there's a rushing in his ears, his pulse hammering as he looks wildly for options. Run? Run _where?_

He’s up on this platform that seems to have no way off, except for people like Spiderman, or Prowler—whose boots have to be at least as fast as Spiderman’s webs, because he’d been all the way across the room, and it seems like only a split second later that he’s right there, vaulting over the platform’s outer barrier. 

The platform feels way, _way_ too small now as Prowler straightens, stalking towards him with the slinking grace of a hunting cat. Miles instinctively throws himself back against the far corner of the railing, glancing from Prowler’s claws to the drop over the edge and back again. 

This isn’t a choice that ends well either way. But Miles’ mind just feels damningly empty, white-noise blank, echoing a frantic _run run run_ with every leaping thump of his heart, and—

Prowler stops.

Not like he’d _meant_ to, some sadistic version of playing with his food or anything like that. More like the way alley cats freeze when Miles makes a noise that startles them. He’d paused halfway through a step, one foot mostly off the ground, one hand out to the side as though he’d meant to bare his claws and then just...hadn’t.

Miles can’t actually see his face, but the mask doesn’t censor everything, either. Prowler’s head is slightly tilted, white eyes blown wide, like Spiderman’s when he’d realized just what Miles was. Miles doesn’t feel that same _…resonance,_ though; he just gets the very strong feeling that he’s being stared at.

He stares back. Three seconds later and it feels like the _worst_ staring contest Miles has ever taken part in, but for lack of any better ideas...

(Making clicking noises the way he would to calm the alley cats probably isn’t going to cut it here. And for all that Miles technically started this fight, he doesn’t actually, you know, _want to fight.)_

“Look, man—” he tries after a deep breath to build courage, but it turns out that he can’t stop his voice from shaking any more than he can his hands. It comes out uncertain and high-pitched, cracking a little in the middle, but Miles doesn’t even have time to regret it, because Prowler _flinches._

At least, that’s what it looks like: a flash of a blink, claws drawing back in. Miles stops short and blinks back at him, scrabbling to figure out what he’d done wrong. Or right?

He doesn’t get the chance.

Sound crackles out through the room, a loudspeaker somewhere projecting out with offbeat, careless singing. Miles jumps and sees Prowler twitch, just slightly, before he twists around to stare at a bank of windows Miles hadn’t noticed before. 

_Run,_ Miles thinks again, but there’s still nowhere to go, and then—

“You like my new toy?” the singer projects, and Miles steals a glance upwards. The man at the windows fills the space entirely, heavy-set and huge in a way Miles doesn’t want to meet. And he keeps talking, but Miles catches movement out of the corner of his eye—Prowler’s turned back, taken a step forward, and Miles’ slowly calming heart skyrockets back up to rabbit speeds. 

He doesn’t even think about it, just braces his hands on the top bars of the barrier and gets one foot up to the center, halfway to a leap and no thought in his head but _away_ —

“Miles, _wait,”_ Prowler says sharply, and stops _again_ , both hands splaying out in a ridiculous parody of a peaceful gesture, considering the claws. His voice is a mechanized, basso purr, so heavily modulated that Miles almost hears it as an actual animal growl before it registers as speech.

Then his mind and his ears meet in the middle and all his frantic thoughts grind to a halt. 

“What—?” Miles stares, stumbling on his words for a moment because that’s probably the _last_ thing he’d expected to hear, and oh, now _wait_ a minute. _“How_ —?”

“Miles, what are you _doing here?”_ Prowler rumbles, fast and low over Miles’ incredulity. He shifts forward another careful step as he speaks, but Miles barely registers it _._

“How do you know my name?” he demands, but he also isn’t an idiot. He’s flipping through every likely and then unlikely candidate before he’s even finished the sentence, because there’s really no reason for the Prowler to know his name unless they know _each other._

For a second, he thinks he won’t get a response, but then Prowler reaches up and shoves at his own mask, hasty enough that Miles almost winces, sure those claws are about to cut a bloody line somewhere they shouldn’t. 

They don’t. But still, it’s a bit like a car crash. Miles can’t make himself look away, but it feels _wrong,_ almost, because the masks are there for a reason and if the comics are anything to go by, then they shouldn’t...ever…

…come off.

Miles gapes. And then squawks, high-pitched and uncaring, _“Uncle Aaron?”_

“Miles, you shouldn’t _be here,”_ Uncle Aaron hisses, sharp and wild-eyed in a way Miles has _never_ seen on him before. Miles swallows, head swimming. He feels unstable, cold and heavy in his core even as some part of him itches to reach out and latch on, because that’s _Uncle Aaron,_ and _oh, thank god._ “If they catch you—”

“No— _No,_ don’t do this!” There had been voices in the background the entire time, Miles knows, a faint buzz in his ears he hadn’t been able to focus on, but that’s _Spiderman’s_ voice now, desperate and drawn. And then lights, snapping on row after row until Miles has to squint. _“Stop!_ You don’t know what it could do—you’ll kill us all!”

Something in Spiderman’s voice raises the hair on Miles’ neck. He sounds _scared,_ and if Spiderman himself is afraid—

Uncle Aaron had turned to look too, Miles vaguely registers, but then something lowers out of the ceiling and Uncle Aaron whips back around at a speed that makes Miles flinch again. He’d pulled his mask back on in the same movement and Miles _knows_ now, but that doesn’t change the fact that Prowler as an entity is...intimidating. 

But...but it’s _Uncle Aaron._ And there are many, many things wrong with that, Miles knows, but right now he’s somewhere he _really_ doesn’t want to be, with powers he doesn’t know how to use, and this feels like a lifeline in a storming sea. 

Even looking into the Prowler’s opaque eyes, he still can’t shake the steadfast kernel of faith in his chest that _Uncle Aaron will fix it._

So when Uncle Aaron closes the last of the small space between them in two quick strides, this time, Miles lets him. He takes his foot off the railing, even, giving up on the climb; it’s all or nothing, at this point. 

“Time to go,” Uncle Aaron growls, back in Prowler’s wildcat snarl, but despite the claws, the hand he puts on Miles’ shoulder is only urgent, not painful. _“Now,_ Miles, c’mon. Before anyone sees.”

It smooths down the rest of Miles’ fear; Prowler or not, Uncle Aaron is trying to keep him safe. Miles steps towards him, more than ready to leave, but while his body moves away from the railing, his hands...stick.

“Seriously?” he moans, digging his feet in and pulling to no avail, not helped by the awkward angle.

“Miles—?” Uncle Aaron starts, and then the room behind him _explodes._

Or it seems like it, at first: the platform under Miles’ feet trembles like the entire room is about to come down, and the _light._ Like fire and then not, a kaleidoscope of color blaring across the room in a column of energy that Miles’ eyes can barely make sense of.

He wants to cover his ears against the sheer noise of it too, and that’s what reminds him that he currently can’t. Uncle Aaron’s hands are at his wrists a second later, sharp claws curling over his sleeves, tugging almost gently as though he thinks Miles just needs the hint, or is too afraid to let go. 

Miles’ palms are already off the bar, though; his fingers are just stubbornly _sticking,_ and he feels more than sees Uncle Aaron pause as he registers the same resistance.

But the shaking is only getting worse; there’s something dark and ominous swelling in the center of the beacon of light, and entire pieces of the ceiling have started to shift and crumble. So Miles goes with the only thing that’s worked. He twists, puts both of his feet up to the center bar for leverage, and pulls with all his might. 

It feels a little like he’d superglued his hands to the bar, a horribly slow peel that’s only just this side of painful. But it works: slow at first and then, as Miles braces himself and gives one final yank, he comes loose all at once. It sends him tumbling straight towards the floor, but Uncle Aaron catches him under the arms as he comes off, dragging him back upright in a flash. 

“What _is_ that thing?” Miles asks him as he staggers back into balance. He pretty much has to yell over the noise, but Uncle Aaron only shakes his head once, decisive. 

“Don’t ask,” he spits, and Miles doesn’t get a chance to pry for more. That newfound sense in his head, the one that had _screamed_ the second before Green Goblin’s first explosive entrance, lights up his spine like a static shock.

He whips his head up, instinct leading the way, and then grabs at Uncle Aaron’s arm and heaves as a whole chunk of the ceiling hurtles down towards them.

It misses them both entirely, but it takes the platform out from under them as it goes. A second of horrible weightlessness, hurtling towards the ground with his stomach in his throat, and then claws latch into the back of Miles’ jacket and yank him to a halt, an almost perfect mimicry of Spiderman’s earlier save.

Uncle Aaron carries him like he’s weightless too, boots and cuffs glowing a jewel-bright purple as he pulls Miles back upwards. He has to dodge one of the oversized metal ceiling tiles though, whole pieces of the roof collapsing down, and the movement launches them into the support struts of the next platform.

Miles grabs onto the bars for dear life as soon as they’re in reach. He can’t even dig up anything other than relief when Uncle Aaron brackets him with a hand on his far side, arm across his back like a safety belt.

“Fuck’s sake,” Uncle Aaron swears, all the more venemous in Prowler’s guttural tones. He’s glaring up at the viewing window when Miles turns to stare, luminescent eyes narrowed into peeved slits. “Don’t know how Octavius plans to test _anything_ when she can’t even keep the building sound.”

He turns back to Miles, shaking his head as though to fling the thought away. “We need—”

On the lookout for more rocks, Miles just barely catches sight of the Green Goblin’s bulk sliding limp off the curve of metal where he’d been looming. Then a web flies past Miles’ face—webs, two—and then Spiderman is there, hurtling past at ridiculous speeds and ricocheting off the wall to bounce back towards them.

He yanks himself to a halt on the bars just over Miles’ head, his feet braced up towards the ceiling in uncaring defiance of gravity.

“Hey, fellas,” he calls, head tipping in a bright, sharp quirk. “How’s it hangin’?”

It’s not the same low comfort he’d offered Miles before. It sounds more like a challenge than anything else, and he looks much tenser, chest low to the bars like he’s about to spring. Miles feels Uncle Aaron stiffen beside him, the arm at his back locking up, and remembers, _oh, right._ Prowler.

The Goblin’s roar is a mismatched sound: somewhere between a bird’s screech and a half-strangled lion. It crawls up Miles’ skin on its way to his ears, chasing the shivering of his sense, and that sound is _way_ too close.

Spiderman’s head jerks up before Miles even realizes what he’s hearing, huge white eyes staring behind Miles’ back. Almost simultaneously, Uncle Aaron snags him around the torso, the arm across his back curling around his chest, and then he kicks _off_ the struts entirely, dropping them both backwards into nothing. 

Miles yelps, though he can’t actually hear himself over the cacophony around him. Two seconds later, the Goblin swoops by overhead, claws outstretched and still screeching, to smash into the supports they’d just been clinging to. Miles sees Spiderman spring out of the way and then something jerks in his navel as Uncle Aaron flips them upright, boots igniting to slow the fall. 

He drifts them down to the floor instead of actually flying, though, and after a quick second, Miles understands. The air here is dangerous, and his stomach is in knots as Uncle Aaron swoops to dodge roof tiles and crumbling rocks. 

Miles waits until Uncle Aaron drops and ducks under the shadow of the next standing platform—for all the good it will do them—before he gives into the urge to squirm. His feet are still dangling off the ground, held up only by the arm under his ribs, and it’s starting to pinch in uncomfortable ways.

Uncle Aaron lets him slide down, but grabs at his wrist immediately after as though afraid of losing track of him and tugs him along, moving at a quick trot away from the fight. And Miles agrees with that on principle, but he can’t help peeking a look out and up, trying to catch Spiderman’s red and blue. 

It takes him a moment—the air’s full of smoke and fire, Goblin flinging bombs with a reckless, snarling energy, the voice from before yelling something that Miles can’t make out as Spiderman dances around the explosions. As Miles watches, Spiderman webs one of the falling ceiling tiles, swings it around himself in a whirl of gathering speed, and lets it fly.

Unlike Miles’ phone, Goblin clearly feels that hit; the force of it cracks his head back and then he tumbles like a spiraling airplane, smashing into the ground at speed half a room away.

“Shit,” Miles hears Uncle Aaron sigh, only barely audible because they’re right next to each other. He’s watching the fight too when Miles looks, staring at the Goblin’s prone form and then lifting his head to where Spiderman has flipped himself to the ceiling. “Yeah. I’m definitely fired.”

Miles blinks, glancing uneasily over at the viewing window; he gets the very unsubtle feeling that, whoever Uncle Aaron works for, it’s not the sort of person he’d be rooting for if he saw this fight in the comics.

Turns out he’d not expected to respond, though. Uncle Aaron just stops in front of him and then crouches low, elbow pressing to the side of Miles’ knee as he reaches back in invitation. “Hop up, Miles. We’re not waiting on them to bring down the roof.”

Miles scrambles up onto his back, thinking at the last second to grab his own wrist in a loop around Uncle Aaron’s neck instead of clinging to his shoulders—pretty much the only thing he hasn’t stuck to so far is himself. 

Part of the platform above them starts to collapse, wood and metal raining down, but Uncle Aaron darts them back out across the open floor before the entire structure falls. He’s headed for the opening to the subways, Miles deciphers after a moment of frantic squinting, the long section of wall he’d first fallen through.

He’s not really sure why Uncle Aaron keeps them on the floor the whole way—though they’re moving so fast that he has to wonder if the boots are somehow helping, cause _whoa_ —but he only shoots them back into the air at the last moment to scale the curve of the wall and clamber into the tunnel. 

It’s almost immediately quieter—but not, Miles realizes a second later, just because they’ve left the main room. The light behind them, reflecting off the metal ahead, shimmers from violent orange-pink-red to a light, cool blue, and the bone-aching rumble of the machine shifts _._

And then it starts to _pull._

Wind whips past Miles’ face, swirling past him back to the main room, and when he chances a quick glance backwards, the beam of light has been replaced by a vortex. The wind’s so strong that Miles can practically see it, and it’s pulling debris of all sorts: metal, stone, and, Miles sees with a flash of incredulous horror, _people,_ the occasional flash of a flailing figure pulled by out of sight. 

“Whoa,” he breathes, but he can feel it pulling at _him_ now, too, whipping at his clothes and peeling at his limbs, and he tightens his arms and legs against it. 

Uncle Aaron hadn’t even looked back, had just kept on ahead, but they’re barely halfway down the tunnel and now he’s not moving at all, head hunched down and low against the wind. 

Miles feels the moment he loses the fight, when all their combined weight shifts back into the pull of the vortex. Uncle Aaron stumbles back one shaky, reluctant step and then snarls something deep in his chest and drops to one knee. 

Miles had barely noticed the train tracks, the first time he’d run out through this tunnel—he’d been a little preoccupied, after all. Now, all he can hope is that they’re stronger than they look as Uncle Aaron works one hand under and around one of the thick metal struts.

Just as Miles thinks to wonder why he isn’t holding on with both hands, Uncle Aaron reaches back to grab him instead, locking a tight grip around one forearm. He tugs too, shoulders shifting like he means to flip Miles forward, but the vortex’s pull has only grown stronger with every passing second and now all they can do is cling to each other. 

For a moment, Miles thinks it won’t be enough: when the pull catches at Uncle Aaron’s legs, yanking him almost flat to the floor, Miles’ heart in his throat as Uncle Aaron kicks down at the tracks once, then twice, before catching a foothold to brace on.. 

Miles’ shoulders _hurt,_ but he can’t risk loosening one inch. He feels like all the air is missing from his lungs, swallowed away into the vortex as pinpricks of fire dig themselves deeper into his forearm, and he’s praying that Uncle Aaron can keep his grip on that last, desperate handhold as the wind _screams—_

—and dies. 

The pull goes with it, and Miles feels Uncle Aaron slump the rest of the way to the floor. Miles lays his cheek on the flat of Uncle Aaron’s shoulder and gasps for breath, feels the rapid rise and fall of him doing the same. 

“What—” _was that?_ he means to say, and between one word and the next Uncle Aaron rolls, flinging him off sideways.

Miles hits the ground on his side, forcing out a cough, and then Uncle Aaron is on him, over him, arms curling him in close and tight, as though something is about to—

* * *

_“...Miles?”_

It’s a bit like one of those waking dreams, where everything sort of...blurs into reality until Miles suddenly _realizes_ he’s awake and shakes away the cobwebs. One moment feels like he’s drifting, disconnected, and the next—

_“Miles!”_

Miles shivers awake. 

He kind of wishes he hadn’t, though. It’s dark, but there’s still a headache throbbing at the base of his skull that surges front and center as his mind clears. _Everything_ aches, really, stiffness from his head to his toes, and then something touches his face.

He swings an arm up to bat at it, wincing at the burn in his shoulder, and coughs. It stings in his chest and throat, and the breath he pulls in to replace it does the same, thick and dusty on his tongue. He screws his face up at the sharp stab that it sends through his temples.

“There you are.” A voice overhead, rumbling low. Miles’ ears feel stuffy, ringing like he’d blasted his music too loud for too long, the way his mom had always warned him. Something brushes across his hair—a hand? “Open your eyes, Miles. ‘s alright, I got you.”

For a moment, Miles can’t place the voice, and with great reluctance he cracks his eyes open again, peering through the low light until it’s interrupted by a flash of white, a glimmer of purple. 

It trickles slowly together in Miles’ mind, memories forming back into coherence like a jigsaw puzzle. Spiderman. The machine. Prowler. _Uncle Aaron._

“Uncle Aaron,” Miles tries, except what comes out is a crackling peep of noise that barely sounds like words. Something cold and hard presses to his forehead as he coughs, swallows, and tries again. “Wha’ ‘appen’d?”

“Explosion,” Uncle Aaron tells him, the deep purr of his altered voice low enough to be soothing for Miles’ throbbing head. “Guess Spiderman really don’t do things by half. They’re not rebuilding that one easy.”

 _Just need to...destroy this big machine real quick,_ Spiderman had told him. What was it? Before _...before the space-time continuum collapses._

Miles can’t really remember the actual explosion, but now he can place the smell of smoke in that heavy, dusty air.

“Careful,” Uncle Aaron warns him when he pushes up to his elbows, the hand on his forehead dropping to his shoulder and squeezing. “Easy, Miles. Take it slow.”

Miles doesn’t really feel up to fast movement anyways. His head swims and throbs harder for a second when he rises, with a corresponding lurch in his belly, but it settles soon enough when he stops there and breathes. 

Uncle Aaron’s hand slips back to brace under his shoulder blade, and Miles peers up at him blearily.

It’s harder than it should be, between the smoke and dust, and very little ambient light. Prowler glows just a little bit on his own, though, the purple cells at his hands and feet the brightest things in the room, and Miles thinks his vision is adjusting. He can pick out some other, large details too if he squints—containers and tracks, thrown every which way from that very first scuffle. 

They’d been down in the tunnel. Had they...had they been thrown all the way down? Uncle Aaron had grabbed him—

“‘re you alright?” Miles asks as his brain puts two and two together, and his head only swims a little as he forces himself the rest of the way up to sitting. 

Uncle Aaron looks rumpled, Miles thinks, though it’s a little hard to tell—he’s down at Miles’ side, half-hidden under his own cape, and the dark color of his costume blends him in a little. He’d been awake first, though, and he didn’t _sound_ that bad. That had to count for something, right?

“Been worse,” Uncle Aaron confirms, and Miles can at least see him well enough now to catch his shrug. “No burns, at least, but the bruises’ll be something else. Lost hold’a you, too, and you were out of it for a minute there. Hit your head?” 

“I...don’t think so?” Miles says, but it’s still a little bit patchy, those last few jigsaw pieces of memory refusing to fill in. 

Uncle Aaron runs a hand over his head, pressing gently down, and Miles closes his eyes and sighs. His headache is still lurking just under the surface, but the only thing truly close to pain is his hair occasionally catching and pulling on the metal joints of the gauntlet.

Actually, no. His arm hurts too, now that he thinks about it, and he opens his eyes to squint at it. He can make out the outline of his jacket well enough, but it takes running his hand gingerly over the sting to find the damp line of holes. Punctures from the claws, he realizes after a moment of blank staring, and then Uncle Aaron hooks those claws around his wrist and draws his arm out too, like he’d noticed Miles’ distraction.

“It’s okay,” Miles asserts preemptively when Uncle Aaron just stares at the darkened rips in the fabric, clearer in the dim light of his cuffs. Miles isn’t about to complain about some scratches when it might have saved him from getting sucked into...whatever that was. But Uncle Aaron’s grip tightens just slightly around his wrist and then releases.

“Probably ought’a go to the hospital anyways,” Uncle Aaron murmurs, though he doesn’t sound particularly sure of himself either. Miles forgets himself and shakes his head, wincing when heat throbs beneath his skin.

“I’m supposed to be at school,” Miles reminds him, putting his other hand to the floor to lean on. “They’ll call mom and dad, in the hospital.”

There’s something cool and soft under his hand: not the floor, something that moves with his hand when he slides it. Uncle Aaron’s cape, he discovers when he picks it up—and then he can’t put it back down again.

“Yeah, you _are_ supposed to be at school,” Uncle Aaron starts, and Miles hunches his shoulders under that tone, bunching the cape in his fist. It takes a lot to get Uncle Aaron angry with him, but Miles is still smarting from the _actual_ _explosion,_ so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. “What were you _thinking,_ Miles? I told you not to come back around here without me—”

“I tried to call you,” Miles protests, and surprisingly Uncle Aaron stops. It does shed a light on all those ‘out-of-town’ voicemails, though. Miles hesitates, glancing from the claws now only inches away from his knee to the cape still stubbornly sticking to his fingers.

It feels like...like Uncle Aaron being the Prowler should change things, like Miles is supposed to rethink telling him anything on principle. These are Spiderman’s powers, after all, and it’s pretty clear there’s no fondness there. But Miles still has that unsettled, almost-sick feeling in his stomach, the one that’s been lurking since he first picked up that comic, and he’s still sticking to everything in sight.

He needs _help_ —and before now, if he’d needed help for trouble he didn’t want to bring home, he’d have gone to Uncle Aaron.

Miles doesn’t even know if Spiderman made it out of that explosion alive.

“I got bit. By a spider, I mean. A spider bite. Last night, while we were down here, and then this morning—” Miles is fumbling and he knows it, but how can he just start with _I walked across a wall_ without sounding like he’s losing it? “At first I thought maybe...I mean, I grew like half a foot, you know? But then—”

“Miles. Take a breath,” Uncle Aaron cuts in, firm, drawing him back to earth. It settles over Miles’ shoulders like a familiar blanket, tamping down on the bird-wings flutter in his gut. 

It doesn’t give him words any more so than before, but in a spark of inspiration Miles lifts up his handful of cape and lets it fall. 

The bundle in his fist unfolds like normal, but the fabric at his fingertips clings like cobwebs. Miles even shakes his hand wildly like he’s trying to fling off water, and _that’s_ when Uncle Aaron seems to realize.

“What—?” he starts, reaching up to tug at the cape, but that just tugs Miles’ hand with it.

“I’m sticking to _everything,”_ Miles explains, half despairing as Uncle Aaron tugs again, then slides a single claw along one of his fingers until it snags up against the sticking point. It doesn’t pry the cape away either, no matter how he works at it. “And everything was so _loud,_ and then I was on the _walls,_ and I—”

“The walls?” Uncle Aaron repeats with an air of bewilderment that Miles might have been proud of causing any other day. 

“I fell out the window,” he admits, even though he _knew_ it would make Uncle Aaron jerk like that, because he’s been holding this in for _hours_ and he just wants…he just… “But it was _fine,_ ‘cause I stuck to the walls. Just walked right across. But then I...thought maybe I should come and get the spider. Just in case.”

Uncle Aaron sits silent and very, very still. He still has one hand wrapped over Miles’ own, frozen in the air between them, and Miles starts picking out faint noises in the distance, the occasional rattle of metal and an echo of something that he thinks could be voices. Here, though, it’s just quiet and dust, one or the other weighing in Miles’ lungs until it feels like he might burst.

“Spiderman said he’d help me. That he’d _show me the ropes,”_ Miles blurts out, and it doesn’t so much lift the weight in his chest as crack it wide open. He’s not even sure why he’s saying this, expect that his head feels so full that trying to grasp any one thought is like trying to hold water, and he doesn’t know what to _do._ “We just _looked_ at each other and it was...he said I was _like him.”_

Miles stops himself. Ducks his head, licks his dry lips. It feels like an age before Uncle Aaron sighs, long and deep like it’s been dragged out of him. Miles’ entire body feels tripwire tight.

“Spider powers, huh?” Uncle Aaron finally says. He sounds only idly thoughtful, like Miles has just brought him another last minute school project or paint-stained shirt, and Miles lets his shoulders unlock, tension shivering out of him again as he exhales.

“Guess so.” He tries for the same light tone, but his voice feels too thick in his throat. 

He feels shaky now, cold where the tension had sat, like letting all the words out has left him with nothing of substance. He doesn’t know why. He’s barely hurt at all. Uncle Aaron’s still here. Everything’s fine.

“I didn’t want to—” he starts, but honestly doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, at this point. “I mean, I didn’t really _want_ them, but Spiderman said there’s not really a choice, so—”

“Hey.” Uncle Aaron nudges cold knuckles under his chin and then slips that hand around to curl heavy over the nape of his neck. The claws rest in a line of featherlight prickles behind his ear. “Relax. We’ll handle it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Miles agrees, slow only because it doesn’t really feel like he can handle _anything_ right now. “Yeah, I’m...I’m good.”

He still leans in when Uncle Aaron pulls him, presses his forehead into the front of Uncle Aaron’s shoulder and stretches his aching arm in a clumsy hug across his chest. Uncle Aaron smells like the room, sharp and unpleasant with soot, but the arm curling behind his shoulders is another familiar, comforting weight. Miles is content to close his dry, tired eyes and rest there for a moment.

“Sure,” Uncle Aaron says, acknowledgement if not agreement, because he’s always seemed to know when to draw Miles out and when to leave the cracks unpried. “Probably better after food and some sleep though, hm?”

Miles isn’t sure his stomach agrees with the thought of food, but he could probably fall asleep _here_ given five minutes more. So he nods dully against Uncle Aaron’s shoulder and distantly considers the unfavorable thought of standing.

The ringing in Miles’ ears has pretty much died down. He realizes this only as he registers the faintest of noises: a recognizable _thwip_ and a soft thump of weight, followed by a half-stifled grunt that sounds about as tired as Miles feels.

He forces his head back up to squint towards the noise and _hey._ Spiderman did survive after all. He looks a little worse for wear, though—he’s not standing quite straight, from what Miles can see, and whole patches of his costume look _off._

“Knew I heard something,” Spiderman says, with a faint air of cheer that doesn’t hide the tired drag in his voice at all. It makes Uncle Aaron flinch stiff, though, his head jerking up from where it’d been resting against Miles,’ and Miles feels the slack claws at his back crook sharp and lethal, pointed even past his clothes.

Miles moves before he can think it through, lunging to grab for Uncle Aaron’s other arm even though it makes his whole body throb.

“Don’t. _Please_ don’t fight,” Miles says, puts all his pleading into his face when Prowler glances back towards him, sets his eyes wide in a way that he knows has won him arguments before. “What’s the _point?_ Didn’t you already say you were fired?”

“Ah...yeah. About that. _Fired_ might be an understatement,” Spiderman interjects, sounding fully serious for once. He looks _smaller_ when Miles turns to him, his shoulders hunched low. “I didn’t realize the collider was going to... _reverse_ like that, and I...couldn’t catch everybody. Pretty sure Kingpin got...caught up.”

 _Blown up,_ Miles deciphers despite the dancing around it, but it feels padded and distant right now, a thought to leave for later. 

For a long moment, Uncle Aaron still looks like he’s thinking of pouncing, tight shoulders and sharp eyes steady down the tunnel on Spiderman. Miles tugs at his wrist again, sick at the thought that, come a fight, one of them might not get back up again.

Maybe Uncle Aaron can read it on him, or maybe the incentive just isn’t there without Kingpin behind the grudge. But either way, he looks back at Miles again and then loosens just a little, shoulders slumping and claws uncurling, less of a snake about to strike. 

“So!” Spiderman says, brightness almost horribly forced. He glances obviously between them, head tipping. “Gotta say, I feel like I’ve walked in on something here. Which is pretty common for me, actually, what with all the sneaking around, but I do usually have at least a _bit_ more context going in.”

Miles blinks at him, trying to parse whatever it is he’s talking about, and—

—and he can’t let go of Uncle Aaron’s forearm.

“Uh,” he says, feeling about as intelligent as sand when trying to subtly unstick his fingers just jostles everything else. Uncle Aaron looks from his arm back to Miles, stare long and heavy, and Miles winces mostly for show, struggling to bite back a sudden bubbling of laughter at how ridiculous it all feels.

“Can you— How do you _unstick?”_ he asks Spiderman, fairly desperate for an answer at this point. He lifts his hands as emphasis, taking the cape and arm up with them, and Spiderman straightens with a jolt.

 _“Oh,”_ he breathes like epiphany, and then his huge eyes screw up in something like a wince. “Oh, I remember that. Biggest pain in the, uh, butt. I broke a _lot_ of stuff that first week.”

That’s almost comforting after the day Miles has had, that Spiderman himself had struggled with this too, but Uncle Aaron makes a grating noise in his throat that actually hurts Miles’ ears.

“Then stop complaining about it,” he snarls, and the sheer difference in tone when he isn’t gentling it sends cold sparks up Miles’ spine, “and come _help him.”_

Miles glances nervously back at Spiderman, but as far as Miles can tell, he looks more interested than bothered, eyes on Uncle Aaron as he meanders a few slow steps forward.

“You know, that might’ve been the longest sentence you’ve ever said to me,” he says idly, but he stops only halfway to them and rocks up a little on his toes. “That mean you’ll keep your claws to yourself if I do come over there?”

“Yes.” Short and flat, sharp in a way that Miles hasn't everheard turned on him, but Uncle Aaron doesn’t tense up, either. 

But then, stuck as he is, any fight they have now will put him right in the middle of it, Miles finally realizes, and that actually makes him relax a little. Uncle Aaron has pretty much proven that that’s the last thing he wants.

“Huh.” Either Spiderman believes it or he’s willing to take the risk, because he starts picking his way towards them again. “Y’know, don’t get me wrong, I’m pleasantly surprised by your priorities tonight, Prowl. Never really took you as much of a kid person.”

He curls around the edge of the room to come up behind Miles, which Miles can’t really blame him for, not with the way Uncle Aaron tracks his progress. He crouches down at Miles’ other side, one hand brushing at the back of his elbow in warning. He’s moving a bit stiff, Miles thinks: slow to crouch down, like a man with creaky knees.

“Still,” Spiderman continues, and it’s like a punch to the stomach when Miles sees that one of his eye lenses has cracked open. White skin, blue eye, and Miles forces his gaze away, feeling like he’s seen far more than he was ever meant to. “I’m getting the impression that you two know each other.”

Uncle Aaron doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t react at all, and Miles scrabbles for the right response. Is he supposed to deny it? But they’d been hugging when Spiderman had come in, hadn’t they? And he doesn’t really think Uncle Aaron is gonna sit quiet in the background even if Spiderman does agree to help him out with his powers.

“Yeah,” Miles admits, but how much does he say? “Yeah, we’re—”

“Miles.” Uncle Aaron’s speaking low again, and he doesn’t _sound_ upset, but Miles snaps his teeth together and twists his lips, trying not to scowl. How is he supposed to know what to say? He doesn’t exactly have much to work with, here.

“We’ve met,” Miles finishes lamely, trying not to feel like he’s disappointing everyone in the room with that answer. 

Uncle Aaron doesn’t say anything else though, and Spiderman only huffs, a very short, quiet laugh. “Not getting any more than that, huh?”

He doesn’t wait for a response either, just takes his hand from Miles’ elbow to wrap it around his shoulder. “It’s Miles, then?”

Miles nods. That one bare eye is still throwing him off, but he’s pretty sure, by the crinkle he can see, that Spiderman is smiling. “Nice to meet you, Miles. You ever meditated before?”

“I know what it is?” Miles offers, because honestly, no. Spiderman just bobs his head like he’d expected that answer.

“Similar idea. You’re too tense, basically, and the sticking becomes...like an overexaggerated freeze response. Gotta relax the rest of you, or your hands won’t come off.”

“Seriously?” Miles says before thinking it through, and then flushes. “Sorry.”

“Sounds silly, I know,” Spiderman says with an easy shrug, “but it won’t always be this difficult. It really is like riding a bike—you won’t need to think about it after a while, but you have to stumble through the wobbly phase to get there. Only way to learn.”

“Right. Okay.” Miles got his own fair share of scabs from riding bikes, he remembers. This should at least be less painful. “Relax.”

He frowns down at his disobedient hands, sucking in one long, deep breath. His throat is still sore, his ribs ache like they might be bruised too, and his head might as well be full of oatmeal. He isn’t really sure how he’s supposed to relax any more than he already is, at this point.

“I haven’t exactly had the chance to try this on anyone else, but I always sort of just...started at the shoulder and worked my way down,” Spiderman explains, sliding his hand down Miles’ arm from his shoulder to his fingertips. “Imagined everything loosening, and by the time I got to the hands…”

Uncle Aaron is still just _watching_ when Miles glances up at him, self-conscious. But he’s holding still enough that he’s not shaking Miles’ hands at all, and so Miles can see the slow rise and fall of his breathing in the shift of his shoulders. 

He sets his own breathing to match and then lets his eyes close, turning his attention to his shoulders. _Relax. Relax._

Sitting quietly has never much agreed with Miles. He likes to tap, to fidget—to dance, when the urge strikes. Maybe it’s that thought that starts it, but there’s suddenly a snippet of song floating in Miles’ tired thoughts and it sparks like inspiration: he wiggles his head and hums it out.

And _that’s_ more like it, the piece he’s been missing—the way he can hang boneless as long as there’s music in his ears. He hums and bobs and then, without letting himself dwell on it, pulls.

And he sticks, but soft: one easy, slow peel and his hands come free, sliding off Uncle Aaron’s arm and leaving the cape in Spiderman’s fingers.

“Nice one, kid,” Spiderman says, sounding genuinely pleased as he flicks the cape up so that it lands draped over Uncle Aaron’s knee. “See? You’re a natural.”

“How long am I gonna keep sticking?” Miles asks, though it’s slightly less horrifying to think of now that he’s come free without damage once.

“At least a week or two, if you’re anything like me,” Spiderman admits, and huffs again when Miles groans. “Hey, that’s the flip side of superpowers no one likes to think about: the learning curve.”

“No kidding,” Miles mutters and, with a wary glance, puts his hand to the floor to push up to his knees.

It doesn’t stick. Thank god.

It’s hard not to wobble a little when he pushes up to standing—the throbbing in his head has calmed to a low hum, but his legs feel about as strong as wet noodles. Still, he makes it up with only minimal wincing. Uncle Aaron stands with him, unfolding from compactness into sharp angles and shadows. 

Miles takes a nervous breath and brushes his fingers to the back of Uncle Aaron’s arm. No stick there either.

It gets him a _look_ from Uncle Aaron though, one white eye wider than the other in a way Miles can only read as incredulous. He feels that out of place laughter bubbling up again, and his lips quiver when he presses them together. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, and Uncle Aaron huffs.

“Liar,” he rumbles, and Miles giggles once before shoving a fist up to his mouth. His chest feels like it’s quivering as he holds the rest down deep. 

Or maybe it’s not just his chest; now that he’s stood, the air feels chilled, and his shoulders shiver without his say so. Everything feels just a little wobbly, honestly: distant, like he’s feeling out the world with gloves.

“All right, kid?” Spiderman asks, and Miles bobs his head in agreement instead of working for words.

Spiderman is still flanking his other side—keeping his distance from Uncle Aaron, Miles thinks, but close enough that Miles catches the once over Spiderman gives him.

“You don’t have to be,” he says then, earnest in a way that makes Miles peer up at him, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. “This is a lot to get used to, and tonight wasn’t easy on anyone.”

“I’m—” Miles doesn’t know what he is. _Fine,_ maybe, expect the longer he stands there, the more he wants to sit back down.

Uncle Aaron slides a hand over his hair to curl around the back of his head. It’s a little bit firmer than Miles is used to, harder against his head with the metal of the gauntlet in the way, but it settles him the way it always has and he lets himself slump a little under the hold.

“—just tired,” Miles finishes, and it might almost be true, though it’s a little late to connect at all gracefully.

“Oh, I feel you there, bud. Let’s see about getting you home, then,” Spiderman says, after a pause that Miles only notices after the fact, and then he steps away, back towards the tunnel. “The collider’s pretty much open to the street after that explosion. Quickest way is probably just up and out.”

He looks back at Uncle Aaron as he speaks, and Miles follows his gaze. Uncle Aaron seems willing to hold his peace at this point, though, because he only glances once from Miles to Spiderman before dropping his hand to nudge between Miles’ shoulder blades, urging him on. 

The huge room—the collider room—is quite a bit brighter than the tunnel, what with all the holes in what used to be the roof. Miles clambers back up onto Uncle Aaron’s back and holds tight, stomach swooping despite his exhaustion as Uncle Aaron flies them out, right on the tail of Spiderman’s easy webs.

The first breath of fresh air actually wakes Miles up a little; it’s still night, for all that it feels like he’s been down there forever, and the air is correspondingly chilly. They zip past the street so fast that Miles just barely catches the flash of emergency lights before they’re bounding to a rooftop several stories up. 

Spiderman lands first, hopping a little from foot to foot as Uncle Aaron touches down after him. He looks tense again, and Miles freezes instead of sliding down.

“If this were a normal night, I’d be trying to bring you down there too,” Spiderman says, and he’s looking squarely at Uncle Aaron. “But I’ve had better days, and _you’ve_ got a kid, apparently, so what say we just keep it at peace talks for now?”

The police below are folding a few men into patrol cars, Miles finds when he follows the tilt of Spiderman’s head, and he grips Uncle Aaron’s shoulders a little tighter as a chill goes up his back. 

Uncle Aaron’s head tilts a little and then turns, one opaque eye glancing back at Miles.

“Miles says you might be willing to help. With the powers,” Uncle Aaron says then, turning back—still flat and oddly abrupt, but not quite so blatantly unfriendly as before. 

Something warm jerks in Miles’ chest; he hadn’t thought that far ahead, but he’d not have expected Uncle Aaron to unbend so far as to ask for him either.

Spiderman, too, straightens like he’s taken aback, but then he nods, actually taking a few steps closer.

“I’d like to,” he says, tone entirely serious, that one open eye flicking up to catch Miles’ gaze. “It’s a _lot_ to figure out, believe me. I’d have liked a helping hand myself, back when I was learning.”

And...Miles still isn’t sure about these powers. He’s only had them for a day, and if _learning_ means learning to be like Spiderman, then Miles isn’t exactly sure he’s the right guy for the job. But now no one’s talking at all—waiting for his response, Miles realizes, and these powers aren’t going to go away, either. No way he wants to do it alone.

“Please,” he agrees, and Spiderman huffs that quiet laugh again.

“Well, I’d offer you a phone number,” he says, wry in a way that makes Miles wince, “but you seem to have lost yours.”

Miles tries not to squirm under the _very_ heavy stare he can feel from Uncle Aaron. Did Spiderman really have to bring that back up?

“I was trying to help,” he protests, but then he can’t help thinking of the way it would have gone if the Prowler had been just about anyone else. Miles sinks his head a little lower, sheepish despite himself. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Uncle Aaron _whuffs,_ shoulders shaking under Miles’ hands, not quite laughter and _all_ disbelief. Miles winces. “Okay, so I’ve had better plans.”

“Yeah,” Spiderman drawls out. “We’ll work on that too.”

He does rattle off a string of numbers in the end; Miles turns all his remaining attention to remembering, because what if he forgets—? But Uncle Aaron taps him lightly on the forearm after the second repeat and Miles relaxes a little at the implied buffer.

He groans when he thinks about what he’d need in order to use that number, though, and shakes his head when Spiderman makes a questioning noise.

“Can’t tell my dad I lost my phone throwing it at the Green Goblin,” he explains, a little morose, and isn’t sure why that makes Spiderman quirk his head. “Anything else won’t be a good enough excuse, though. He’s gonna be upset.”

“I mean, considering…” Spiderman hedges slowly, and Miles scowls at him half-heartedly. Traitor.

“Just use mine,” Uncle Aaron sighs, so soft that there’s barely any distortion at all. Miles hums tired acknowledgement; he’s going to need a new phone eventually, but he can worry about that tomorrow.

“Uh _-huh,”_ Spiderman says, head titled as he watches them, and Miles finally puts it together. Spiderman swings a finger vaguely between them. “So, can I ask—?”

“No,” Uncle Aaron growls, short and final. Miles pulls a face—he feels a little guilty keeping things from _Spiderman,_ of all people, especially when he’s been so helpful, but he keeps his mouth shut all the same. This doesn’t seem like the time to argue about it. 

“Well, in that case,” Spiderman says after a pause, one hand at his hip, “you want me to see you the rest of the way home, Miles?”

He moves his head once, like he's glancing from Miles’ face down to Uncle Aaron. Miles can understand why he’s concerned, he supposes, coming at it from the outside. But Spiderman seems just as tired as Miles feels, and he really doesn’t need an escort.

“Nah, we’re good,” he yawns, and tucks his cheek deliberately against the side of Uncle Aaron’s head. Turns out the weird spikes from his cape are softer than they look. “Thanks, though.”

“All right, then.” Spiderman nods slowly and then backs away toward the edge of the roof. “Prowler, it’s been...weird. Miles, let me know when you want to meet. And you can call anytime, okay? If you’ve got questions or worries, or just...want to talk. Anything.”

“Okay,” Miles agrees, some stifled part of his tired putty brain lighting up with the belated realization that _he has Spiderman’s phone number, oh my god._ “Just… thanks.”

“No problem, kid.” Spiderman hesitates there for one more moment and then flicks his fingers in something like a salute. “Be seeing you both.”

Then he flips off the edge of the roof. Miles knows better, and the sight of it still makes his heart jerk. The faint _thwip_ a second later goes a long way towards smoothing it out, but still.

Uncle Aaron slumps down a little under Miles’ hands, like what little energy he’d been running on had finally blown out, and Miles leans forward to peer at his face, concerned.

“You okay?” he asks, not sure what he’ll do if the answer is _no,_ but still wanting to help.

Uncle Aaron just nods, deep and slow, and starts walking slowly to the other side of the roof.

“Think it’s time we both rest,” he says, squaring up to the edge of the building. He fixes Miles with a look in the next second, though: narrow-eyed, like a cat with its ears back. “Don’t go thinking you got off scott free, though, just cause your old man don’t know where you been. Gonna be some ground rules at the very least, before you start hoppin’ off buildings.”

Miles huffs a little to himself, because clearly Uncle Aaron’s been doing more than hopping off buildings. His rules have never been stifling, though, and definitely Miles’ dad wouldn’t be half as lenient. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Good,” Uncle Aaron rumbles, and then he too hesitates for a moment, feet up on the edge.

Miles looks out across the landscape in front of him: staggered rooftops lit by the firefly glow of windows and streetlights and advertisements dotting the dark, the barest curve of the moon sitting off to Miles’ right. Even this tired, something in Miles’ gut tightens in anticipation, as he realizes that one day he might _actually_ be able to just... _hop off._

“Miles?” Uncle Aaron starts, and Miles hums in question, blinking back to the present. 

Uncle Aaron slides a slow hand over one of his forearms, claws tucking carefully over the curve. “Glad you’re alright.”

Miles smiles. There’s a lot they haven’t talked about, a lot Uncle Aaron isn’t saying, but Miles doesn’t think there’s anything hidden in this.

“You too,” he says, and squeezes his arms a little tighter around Uncle Aaron’s neck. “Love you.”

“Love you too, kid,” Uncle Aaron answers, apparently unhesitating even in costume. Miles lets that thought settle behind his ribs and warm him from the inside. “Now hang on tight.”

Miles sucks in a breath, the world spread out beneath his feet, and then they leap off the rooftop and _fly._

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> there's no way an explosion the size of the one at the end of the movie wouldn't at least toss people around. that thing was huge.
> 
> and in the middle of writing so many stories involving these two, i have come to the realization that i have a strong desire for Miles to:  
> 1\. get picked up/ride around on people's shoulders  
> 2\. have cuddles. lots and lots of cuddles  
> weird, but could be worse. just gonna go with it. 
> 
> no beta! if you see anything wrong or just have suggestions, please do share :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Breaking Even](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26562337) by [Acidwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acidwing/pseuds/Acidwing)




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